Withered flowers

In a garden once bright with colors bold,

Now stand withered flowers, weary and cold.

Petals once vibrant, now faded and dry,

Whispers of beauty that once reached the sky.

Their fragrant scent now a distant memory,

Echoes of blossoms once wild and free.

Under the sun's relentless, burning gaze,

They wilt and fade in a muted haze.

Once kissed by dewdrops in the early morn,

Now drooping heads, burdened and worn.

Each bloom tells a story of fleeting grace,

Time's gentle touch on their delicate face.